The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer (42 page)

By the early 1980s, brave new paradigms of treatment had thus arisen out of the ashes of old paradigms. Halsted’s fantasy of attacking early-stage cancers was reborn as adjuvant therapy. Ehrlich’s “magic bullet” for cancer was reincarnated as antihormone therapy for breast and prostate cancer.

Neither method of treatment professed to be a complete cure. Adjuvant therapy and hormonal therapy typically did not obliterate cancer. Hormonal therapy produced prolonged remissions that could stretch into years or even decades. Adjuvant therapy was mainly a cleansing method to purge the body of residual cancer cells; it lengthened survival, but many patients eventually relapsed. In the end, often after decades of remission, chemotherapy-resistant and hormone-resistant cancers grew despite the prior interventions, flinging aside the equilibrium established during the treatment.

But although these alternatives did not offer definitive cures, several important principles of cancer biology and cancer therapy were firmly cemented in these powerful trials. First, as Kaplan had found with Hodgkin’s disease, these trials again clearly etched the message that cancer was enormously heterogeneous. Breast or prostate cancers came in an array of forms, each with unique biological behaviors. The heterogeneity was genetic: in breast cancer, for instance, some variants responded to hormonal treatment, while others were hormone-unresponsive. And the heterogeneity was anatomic: some cancers were localized to the breast when detected, while others had a propensity to spread to distant organs.

Second, understanding that heterogeneity was of deep consequence. “Know thine enemy” runs the adage, and
Fisher’s
and Bonadonna’s trials had shown that it was essential to “know” the cancer as intimately as possible before rushing to treat it. The meticulous separation of breast cancer into distinct stages, for instance, was a crucial prerequisite to the success of Bonadonna’s study: early-stage breast cancer could not be treated like late-stage breast cancer. The meticulous separation of ER-positive and ER-negative cancers was crucial to Fisher’s study: if tamoxifen had indiscriminately been tested on ER-negative breast cancer, the drug would
have been discarded as having no benefit.

This nuanced understanding of cancer underscored by these trials had a sobering effect on cancer medicine. As Frank Rauscher, the director of the NCI, put it in 1985, “
We were all more naive a decade ago
. We hoped that a single application of drugs would result in a dramatic benefit. We now understand it’s much more complicated than that. People are optimistic but we’re not expecting home runs. Right now, people would be happy with a series of singles or doubles.”

Yet the metaphorical potency of battling and obliterating cancer relatively indiscriminately (“one cause, one cure”) still gripped oncology. Adjuvant chemotherapy and hormonal therapy were like truces declared in the battle—signs, merely, that a more aggressive attack was necessary. The allure of deploying a full armamentarium of cytotoxic drugs—of driving the body to the edge of death to rid it of its malignant innards—was still irresistible. So cancer medicine charged on, even if it meant relinquishing sanctity, sanity, or safety. Pumped up with self-confidence, bristling with conceit, and hypnotized by the potency of medicine, oncologists pushed their patients—and their discipline—to the brink of disaster. “
We shall so poison the atmosphere of the first act
,” the biologist James Watson warned about the future of cancer in 1977, “that no one of decency shall want to see the play through to the end.”

For many cancer patients caught in the first act, there was little choice but to see the poisonous play to its end.

“More is more,”
a patient’s daughter told me curtly. (I had suggested to her delicately that for some patients with cancer, “Less might be more.”) The patient was an elderly Italian woman with liver cancer that had metastasized widely throughout her abdomen. She had come to the Massachusetts General Hospital seeking chemotherapy, surgery, or radiation—if possible, all three. She spoke halting, heavily accented English, often pausing between her words to catch her breath. Her skin had a yellow-gray tinge—a tinge, I was worried, that would bloom into a bright jaundice if the tumor obstructed her bile duct fully and her blood began to fill up with bile pigments. Exhausted, she drifted in and out of sleep even while I was examining her. I asked her to hold the palms of her hands straight
upward, as if halting traffic, looking for signs of a subtle flapping motion that often predates liver failure. Thankfully, there was no tremor, but the abdomen had a dull, full sound of fluid building up inside it, likely full of malignant cells.

The daughter was a physician, and she watched me with intense, hawklike eyes while I finished the exam. She was devoted to her mother, with the reversed—and twice as fierce—maternal instinct that marks the poignant moment of midlife when the roles of mother and daughter begin to switch. The daughter wanted the best possible care for her mother—the best doctors, the best room with the best view of Beacon Hill, and the best, strongest, and toughest medicine that privilege and money could buy.

The elderly woman, meanwhile, would hardly tolerate even the mildest drug. Her liver had not failed yet but was on the verge of doing so, and subtle signs suggested her kidneys were barely functioning. I suggested that we try a palliative drug, perhaps a single chemotherapeutic agent that might just ameliorate her symptoms rather than pushing for a tougher regimen to try to cure an incurable disease.

The daughter looked at me as if I were mad. “I came here to get treatment, not consolations about hospice,” she finally said, glowering with fury.

I promised to reconsider by asking more experienced doctors to weigh in. Perhaps I had been too hasty in my caution. But in a few weeks, I learned that she and her daughter had found another doctor, presumably someone who had acquiesced more readily to their demands. I do not know whether the elderly woman died from cancer or its cure.

Yet a third voice of dissent arose in oncology in the 1980s, although this voice had skirted the peripheries of cancer for several centuries. As trial after trial of chemotherapy and surgery failed to chisel down the mortality rate for advanced cancers, a generation of surgeons and chemotherapists, unable to cure patients, began to learn (or relearn) the art of
caring
for patients.

It was a fitful and uncomfortable lesson. Palliative care, the branch of medicine that focuses on symptom relief and comfort, had been perceived as the antimatter of cancer therapy, the negative to its positive, an admission of failure to its rhetoric of success. The word
palliate
comes from the Latin
palliare
, “to cloak”—and providing pain relief was perceived
as cloaking the essence of the illness, smothering symptoms rather than attacking disease. Writing about pain relief, a Boston surgeon thus reasoned in the 1950s: “
If there is persistent pain
which cannot be relieved by direct surgical attack on the pathological lesion itself . . ., relief can be obtained only by surgical interruption of sensory pathways.” The only alternative to surgery was more surgery—fire to fight fire. Pain-relieving opiate drugs such as morphine or fentanyl were deliberately denied. “If surgery is withheld,” the writer continued, “the sufferer is doomed to opiate addiction, physical deterioration or even suicide”—an ironic consideration, since Halsted himself, while devising his theory of radical surgery, had swiveled between his twin addictions to cocaine and morphine.

The movement to restore sanity and sanctity to the end-of-life care of cancer patients emerged, predictably, not from cure-obsessed America but from Europe. Its founder was Cecily Saunders, a former nurse who had retrained as a physician in England. In the late 1940s, Saunders had tended to a Jewish refugee from Warsaw dying of cancer in London. The man had left Saunders his life savings—£500—with a desire to be “
a window in [her] home
.” As Saunders entered and explored the forsaken cancer wards of London’s East End in the fifties, she began to decipher that cryptic request in a more visceral sense: she encountered terminally ill patients denied dignity, pain relief, and often even basic medical care—their lives confined, sometimes literally, to rooms without windows. These “hopeless” cases, Saunders found, had become the pariahs of oncology, unable to find any place in its rhetoric of battle and victory, and thus pushed, like useless, wounded soldiers, out of sight and mind.

Saunders responded to this by inventing, or rather resurrecting, a counterdiscipline—palliative medicine. (She avoided the phrase
palliative care
because
care,
she wrote, “is a soft word
” that would never win respectability in the medical world.) If oncologists could not bring themselves to provide care for their terminally ill patients, she would leverage other specialists—psychiatrists, anesthesiologists, geriatricians, physical therapists, and neurologists—to help patients die painlessly and gracefully. And she would physically remove the dying from the oncology wards: in 1967, she created a hospice in London to care specifically for the terminally ill and dying, evocatively naming it St. Christopher’s—not after the patron saint of death, but after the patron saint of travelers.

It would take a full decade for Saunders’s movement to travel to America and penetrate its optimism-fortified oncology wards. “
The resistance to
providing palliative care to patients,” a ward nurse recalls, “was so deep that doctors would not even look us in the eye when we recommended that they stop their efforts to save lives and start saving dignity instead . . . doctors were allergic to the smell of death. Death meant failure, defeat—
their
death, the death of medicine, the death of oncology.”

Providing end-of-life care required a colossal act of reimagination and reinvention. Trials on pain and pain relief—trials executed with no less rigor or precision than those launched to test novel drugs and surgical protocols—toppled several dogmas about pain and revealed new and unexpected foundational principles. Opiates, used liberally and compassionately on cancer patients, did not cause addiction, deterioration, and suicide; instead, they relieved the punishing cycle of anxiety, pain, and despair. New antinausea drugs were deployed that vastly improved the lives of patients on chemotherapy. The first hospice in the United States was launched at Yale–New Haven Hospital in 1974. By the early 1980s, hospices for cancer patients built on Saunders’s model had sprouted up worldwide—most prominently in Britain, where nearly two hundred hospice centers were operating by the end of that decade.

Saunders refused to recognize this enterprise as pitted “against” cancer. “
The provision of . . . terminal care
,” she wrote, “should not be thought of as a separate and essentially negative part of the attack on cancer. This is not merely the phase of defeat, hard to contemplate and unrewarding to carry out. In many ways its principles are fundamentally the same as those which underlie all other stages of care and treatment, although its rewards are different.”